


One Night

by flipfloppandas



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Bottom Trunks Briefs, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:48:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27358312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flipfloppandas/pseuds/flipfloppandas
Summary: While on vacation with their families, Trunks and Goten become closer one night.
Relationships: Trunks Briefs/Son Goten
Kudos: 18





	One Night

**Author's Note:**

> I have decided to move all of my olds fanfics from Fanfiction.net onto here. Instead of stressing myself out revising even more old fics, I have decided to post them as they were originally written. This story was written in 2014 and does not reflect my current writing ability.

Wallpaper: Light brown.

Table: dark woody.

Dad: Eating so obnoxiously that a piece of his meat flies onto my plate, and I pop it in my mouth before he can snatch it back just to spite him. He pouts. I am triumphant.

Window across the room: just _might_ be _slightly_ foggier than it was two minutes ago.

Plates of food in front of me that I _should_ be eating: Not diminishing as fast as it should.

Boy sitting vertical of me: Still not paying attention to me, like I should not be paying attention to him.

We are eating out, and from the looks on Mom's, Bulma's, and Videl's faces, it is obviously a mistake. Who thought it was a good idea to come here anyway? Just because it is labeled as a 'family restaurant', does not mean we should bring _our_ family of seven hungry saiyans out to this innocent little food joint. Geez, even _Bra_ puts food away like a grown man, and she doesn't even train! This little restaurant was _so_ not prepared for this.

And to think. This is only our lunch.

We are on vacation, I suppose. It took a while, but Bulma—who ranted to my father for nearly an hour that this whole "never visiting so he can train all the damn time" is unacceptable—finally got Vegeta to agree on this vacation. We had only just stepped off of the public airplane a couple of hours ago, and my Dad was excited to try the foreign Spanish foods, so we stopped here for lunch, and, well, you already know the error in that...

If you are wondering just why exactly I am contemplating the wallpaper, and table, and the window, and the plates of food in front of me that I should be eating, it is in fact, because of the boy sitting vertical of me.

I know that I should not be as affected by him as I am right now; this is not the first time we have eaten in each other's presence, and it won't be the last. We are best friends after all, and eating a meal together is not unheard of. But, the reason that I am trying not to watch him is because if I do, I will get lost in my thoughts, and when I'm lost in my thoughts I'll end up staring at him like a creep, and then he'll _catch_ me staring at him like a creep, and then I'll have to fumble for a reason as to _why_ I am staring at him like a creep, then he won't believe whatever bullshit reason I come up with and think that I am an eternally awkward person, and then he'll decide that he does not want to be associated with an eternally awkward person and slither his way out of our friendship, which will leave me a _lonely_ eternally awkward person, and no one wants to be a lonely eternally awkward person...

... Or something like that.

"Hey, Goten, are you alright?" asks my brother, sitting next to me. His, Dad's, and— _shit_ —Trunks' eyes are watching me now. There is curiosity, and a bit of concern in their eyes, and thank _fucking_ you, _Gohan_ , for putting the spotlight on me. Honestly, you couldn't have asked your question _slightly_ quieter? Good gods, I'm surprised that _Vegeta_ didn't hear you with how loud you were asking what is _supposed_ to be a personal question! Okay scratch that. He probably did hear you, but he just doesn't care; probably because it's not any of his damn business anyway. Why can't my family be more like Vegeta? Well, I guess it kind of is their business, because they are in fact, my family. And then it's Trunks' business, because he's my best friend.

I'm getting lost in my thoughts again—l lost the argument against myself anyways—and they are still waiting for an answer. I better hurry before my _mother_ notices. Good gods she'll bother me until I _have_ to tell her the truth.

"Huh? Oh, nothing. I was just thinking."

"Oh, shocker," Trunks says, a smirk pulling at his lips.

"Har, har, har. When did you become so hilarious?"

"Around the same time your idiocy started showing."

"Wow, thanks, _friend_ ," I say back, and kick him in the shin under the table. My father and Gohan laugh, and Trunks looks like he's about to say something else, when his mother cuts him off.

"Ugh, will you two _please_ not start anything? This is already humiliating enough," Bulma says, dropping her forehead onto her hand as her four-year old daughter along with Pan completely abandon their silverware, and shows every other family staring at us, the amazing appetite of a saiyan. Trunks and Gohan, realizing Bulma's implications, flush, and proceed to eat a bit more dignified. Mom and Videl agree with her. Dad laughs again and rubs the back of his head. Vegeta, again, pretends that he is deaf, and ignores her.

Me, well, now I _actually_ have to eat—so as not to raise anymore suspicions—but I don't feel like eating. I feel like staring like a creep.

So, I decide, to just do both. It's not like Trunks is paying any attention to me anyway.

I spin noodles onto my fork—they use these utensils far more frequently here in Barcelona, than we do in Japan—and glance up at the boy across from me. He's just sitting there, piercing his meat with his own fork and depositing it into his mouth. His eating is more cautious though, and his cheeks are still flushed, as if he can feel the many eyes watching him. I think it a bit ridiculous—they are probably actually watching my _dad_ eat—but I know how he gets with unwanted attention. It's obviously hard for him to avoid unwanted attention, though. He is like an attention magnet. I mean, just look at him.

I get a dollop of sauce on my shirt. I rub my thumb over it, and then pop my thumb in my mouth. I look up, and see that no one notices. Excellent. It's time for me to continue my ranting.

For starters, let's identify Trunks' attention magnetism by making a reference to the families surrounding our table. The families around us speak rapid words in a language I can't understand. Spanish—I'm almost certain that's what they primarily speak in this part of Spain. Don't judge me. You're judging me aren't you? I can tell. Well dammit they don't speak "American" in America, or "Canadian" in Canada. I think I'm allowed to be a bit confused on whether or not they speak Spanish in this part of Spain or not... Actually it makes sense that they speak Spanish in this part of Spain now that I think about it... You know what, who asked you? Leave me alone, dammit!—words that flow over my head, or into my ear and out the next. Trunks speaks Spanish; he is probably catching every word they are saying (perhaps that's why he thinks everyone is talking about him because they actually are and I just can't tell). Spanish isn't the only language he can somewhat fluently speak either! I used to believe that he was so smart because his mother was Bulma, but I quickly realized that Bulma isn't like my mother, and could care less if Trunks studied as long as he didn't fail school. His intelligence is natural, which kind of sucks ass for me. Do you have any idea how much it sucks to have a best friend who wins every argument, or every competition, because he has a photographic memory and can pull up any facts or _evidence_ or _strategy_ that he wants _when_ he wants? Well if you don't, I'll tell you, it rather sucks. And yes, when Trunks goes on a fifteen minute tirade about _why_ he brought up Newton's Law of Universal Gravitation in our argument over which baseball player was the best, people tend to pay attention to him.

In his defense, his player was better.

He knocks his spoon off of the table, and bends out of sight to pick it up. In the spot where his body used to be, I see a scarlet-haired girl sitting at her table a bit further away. Her eyes are trailed down, watching as Trunks grabs his spoon, and I think it's safe to say that she's been watching him for a while. I have the desire to glare at her, but she's not looking at me, and Trunks has situated himself back up, hiding her from view again.

That's another thing I find rather annoying. It irks me to no end that he has so many chicks fighting over him. What's even more annoying is that he doesn't seem to care! I don't have the drop-dead good looks that Trunks has, so while I pull quite a few girls myself, I have to at least put a _bit_ of effort into charming them.

_That doesn't seem fair._

Yes, voice in my head, it is unfair.

Seriously though, he puts absolutely no effort into getting the girls that he doesn't even want! Hell, there was only one time I can recall that Trunks told me he actually interacted with one of his 'fan girls' (unless of course, he's not telling me everything, which hurts more than I care to admit).

It was nearly half a year ago when he told me that he received head—not his exact words of course. His _exact_ words consisted of a lot of embarrassed sputtering, that I don't quite think you'll be able to understand—from a girl in his advanced chemistry class named Akela. He described it to me in as best detail as he could without spontaneously combusting from his embarrassment, but his words still put rather provocative images in my head that I didn't need: a dark-haired girl on her knees with her delicate tan hand wrapped around his base, while her lips sucked on his head.

I think about that image a lot, and I really wish I could forget it. Sometimes, when I think _really_ in-depth about that image, I imagine her tan skin becoming paler, her dark hair becoming shorter and spikier, and her delicate hand becoming not so delicate and actually larger and maybe a bit calloused. I imagine Trunks: his eyes only part of the way closed—because how could he look away when someone has their _lips_ over his dick?—and cheeks pink, his arms crossed tightly over his hoodie-clad chest because he doesn't know what else to do with them. I imagine the girl no longer being on her knees, but rather is kneeling closer to the ground like a dude tying his shoelaces, because I'm probably taller than her, and if I were to actually go on my knees, I'd probably be leveled with Trunks' bellybutton...

_Stop it, Goten! Must you always think such dirty thoughts?!_

...Yes.

I can't help it though! And besides, I'm not entirely all to blame. Just look at him! How dare he just sit there, not even realizing how beautiful he is? His lavender hair framing his face like it always does, his smooth tan slightly flushed cheeks that look completely kissable, thin lips—which also look just as kissable— that are moist from his pink tongue darting out and running across them, and blue eyes lidded from looking down at his plate.

You know what that reminds me of? It reminds me of a daydream I had about Trunks. A daydream where Trunks was lying shirtless on his back, and tangled up in what suspiciously looked like my bed sheets. He was panting, and his lavender hair was tousled around his blue eyes, that were lidded, and flooded with desire as he stared up at me. His kissable cheeks are flushed bright, and his kissable lips are parted with the labored breaths that I pretend are there, as I grab the underside of his knees to spread his long legs wide, and give myself an eyeful of his-

Stop it, dammit, _stop_ _it_!

I am about to frustratedly—I'm _pretty_ sure that's a word—run my fingers through my hair, when I realize that he's looking back at me. His eyes trail down and whip back and forth—as if checking himself over—before he looks at me again, mouthing the word, 'what?'

I debate telling him 'what'. I wonder what he'd say if I told him that I was imagining him naked, moaning, spread-eagled, and bouncing on my bed while I pounded-

Yeah... I'll keep that to myself.

My cheeks are burning as I dismiss him, and turn back to my food. I can feel his eyes on me, but I only stuff a slice of ham into my mouth, as I try to inconspicuously adjust my pants. They are feeling rather tight.

I need to stop thinking this way; it's never going to happen. I don't think Trunks desires to be fucked by a dude, and if he did, I really doubt that dude would be me. Why would he want me that way anyway? What do I have to offer him? I know that I'm not ugly—I'm rather attractive, thank you very much—but as I said before, I'm not drop-dead gorgeous. Not like he is. I simply make a better _best_ friend than a _boy_ friend for him. I can accept that, right? I'm already lucky enough to have him as a best friend, of course that's good enough for me... right? It's okay to desire him—he's too amazing _not_ to desire. Hell, it would be weird if I _didn't_ desire him—there is absolutely nothing wrong with that. I just have to make sure that I don't ever _act_ on these desires. That won't be hard, right?

Of course it won't. I've hidden this attraction for nearly a year.

Another sixty won't hurt.

* * *

I can hear the muffled voices from the television as I jerk the towel through my wet hair. When I feel like I've dried it to my best ability, I yank the towel away, and pick up my hairbrush. I'm tugging it through my slightly dampened hair, as I blow out my breath, just so I can smell the mint from the toothpaste. I've just got out the shower, but I'm taking as long as I can before I have to sleep.

Bulma—the ever so rich woman she is—insisted that we are all comfortable in our rooms. My parents are to the left of us, Bulma and Vegeta and their daughter are to our right, and Gohan and Videl and Pan are across the hall. As a treat to us—and the fact that we threw a _minor_ hissy fit over the prospect of sharing a room with our _parents..._ yes I know; just the thought of it is terrible—Bulma paid for a room for just Trunks and I. Normally I don't mind sharing a room alone with Trunks. Hell, normally I'm ecstatic—having an excuse to share a room with my best friend, A.K.A the hottest boy I know? That's like a dream come true—but this isn't necessarily the case. Ever since the incident at lunch, he's been watching me with that unreadable expression that always makes me get goose bumps. Actually, he's been watching me with an unreadable expression a lot lately. Maybe I'm being too obvious? Either way, he's onto me, and I have to try my best to make him think his suspicions are unnecessary.

I put down the hairbrush, and tighten the drawstrings on my pajamas pants. I debate putting on a shirt, but I decide against it, because for some weird reason, I'm more inclined to wear a shirt when I'm nervous around bedtime (examples include: I have an important test tomorrow, might get caught by my mother for misbehaving, has a super cute best friend in the next room who may possibly know I've got a huge crush on him and the aching desire to pound him into the nearest mattress, etc.)

So, shirtless and nervous, I force myself to walk out of the bathroom. I cross the threshold into the main section in our hotel room.

As I walk in, there is a burst of laughter coming from my right. I turn my head, and direct my attention to my lavender-headed best friend. He is curled up on my bed, his hands cupped over his mouth as his body shudders with laughter. I look at the TV screen, but I guess the humorous part is over because there is nothing significantly funny about what is on screen. He is watching something in Spanish, so I don't bother asking about it. He'll just say I wouldn't understand it, and keep on laughing.

Instead, I wrap my arms over my chest, cross my ankles, and lean against the doorframe to the bathroom. I watch him and can't help but smile. I love seeing him happy. I'm not really surprised to see him spread out on my designated bed. Not that there is anything wrong with his bed—all it has is his opened suitcase on it—but he probably won't go over there until he's ready to sleep.

It is a few more seconds before he notices me. I arch my brow at him, and give him my best amused smile.

"What?" he asks, a few more left over huffs of laughter coming from him.

"Your face is red. You look like a blue-eyed tomato."

"Shut up, Goten," he responds, but he's smiling.

I love his smile. Did you know that? I figured so; why the hell wouldn't I love his smile? We all love smiling, purple-haired, blue-eyed tomatoes, right?

In all seriousness; I love his fucking smile.

Oh shit, I'm staring at him again. And... He's staring back. He's just lying there: he's wearing grey pajama pants, and _oh shit_ my shirt. It's nothing special: a white t-shirt that I cut the sleeves off of with "Of Mice & Men" printed on the front. Trunks stole it from me a year ago, and I've been conflicted about why he did. I mean, it's not weird per se that my best friend took my shirt—I take his clothes all the time—but rather because why would he need too? He's Trunks fucking Brief. If he really wanted to, he could just go out and buy his own—I'm pretty sure he already has one in black—and just ask me to cut the sleeves for him (I'm rather good at it, if you want to consider it a skill) or even buy one made without sleeves. Or maybe he didn't want to go through all that, and saw that I had a perfectly good sleeveless shirt that he figured he was allowed to have since I always take his stuff?

Yeah, I'm probably looking too much into this.

He's got a content look on his face, but he's still watching me, searching my face for something that will give my secret away. I know this, because he's been my best friend for at least twelve years, and I know how he reads people.

I feel my cheeks flush as I turn away. I feel his eyes watching me as I walk to the other side of the bed. I plop down, and swing my body so that I'm lying on my back, my face near his sock-clad feet. It's been our standard sleepover position for as long as I can remember: He gets the top of the bed, while I get the end. We don't typically sleep in the same bed, but we like to watch TV together until he falls asleep or is close to, and then one of us moves for the night. I normally sleep on the opposite end of the bed either way so it's not that big of a change for me. You don't have to tell me I'm weird; I've gathered that already.

Even as I'm settled down in my seat, he's still watching me—reading me—and I'm starting to get uncomfortable. I try my best not to let my nervousness show as I snatch the television remote from in between our bodies. I flip onto my stomach and aim the remote at the television. I don't bother trying to find a channel in Japanese, so I press the button that looks like the 'On Demand' button on the remote I use at my house. It indeed is the 'On Demand' button, but as expected, everything is in Spanish.

Trunks doesn't even ask if I need his assistance—which I do—as he sits up, and pulls the remote from my hands. He's watching the screen as he presses buttons, which I'm guessing, takes us to a page dedicated to Japanese movies, because I can read some of the movie titles.

"Thanks," I say. "But these all suck."

"Yeah, I don't think the Spanish have much a reason to watch Japanese movies in _actual_ Japanese."

"Damn subtitles." I grumble.

He laughs, and searches through the movies. When he comes up with nothing satisfactory, he moves onto the movies in English, which I'm a bit annoyed to see have more options. I watch him as he stares intently at the screen, his lips forming words that he doesn't understand right away—he says that English is a hard language. I can vouch to that, because what I remember of my one-year requirement of English was hell, but Trunks being his over-achieving self, can already write and speak more than the basics, which I cannot, nor ever will—as he scrolls through the movies. Some of the cover photos catch my attention, but he tells me that those movies do not offer any form of Japanese subtitles. I'm still annoyed.

It's after a couple minutes when he says, "Well, we could watch ' _Naruto'_ in Japanese and just ignore the Spanish subtitles."

"Sounds good to me." It is a good show.

He clicks a button on the remote, and the show turns on. I watch him as he sets the remote aside, and pushes himself onto his knees. He crawls across the bed towards the lamp. He reaches out, the sleeveless t-shirt sliding up to expose his abdomen, waist, and—good _gods_ —the bones of his hips that his pajama pants should be covering.

I have the nagging desire to slide that shirt up the rest of the way, and pull his pants further down—maybe even with my teeth—and while I'm at it, I might as well take care of his boxers as well, and—

I do none of those things, and turn my attention back to the television screen, my cheeks burning. I feel his eyes on me again, but I ignore him, and only watch the cartoon. All I have to do is make it through this episode, and I will be home free. Why must I make it through this episode? Because Trunks is a person who likes to sleep—and heavily at that— and we have had a very busy day today. Basically once he's unconscious—which he will be—he will stay that way until morning, and after I've dragged him over to his bed, I will have successfully survived the night. I can do that. I've done it before. Yup.

It's only ten minutes into the episode when I feel his toe pressing into my shoulder. Today is not a good day for me.

"Hey," he says, and my nervous comes back. By this time, he should be asleep, or close to being. The fact that he's still as wide awake as me means that we are going to _talk_. And he's not going to let me worm my way out of this.

I don't want to talk. Talking is dangerous.

"What?" I say as nonchalantly as I can, but I keep my eyes on the television. It would be normal for me to be so engrossed in television (hell, I probably would be if I wasn't the new chosen host of all nervousness), so I try my best to not give him any reason to be suspicious.

"Are you... okay?"

"What do you mean?" I turn my attention onto him. He's sitting crossed-legged and watching me with that searching gaze again. I have a weird feeling in my stomach.

"You've seemed 'off' lately."

"'Off'?"

"Yeah."

"I'm not 'off', I'm fine." I say, and I arch my brow, so he can believe that I am confused on why he would ever accuse me of such.

He arches his brow at me, but in a different way. The way he does it seems kind of negative, like he's calling me an idiot in his head.

"What?"

"Goten, I have known you since you were in diapers. Do you seriously think I can't tell when you're lying?"

"You haven't known me since I was in _diapers_."

"Yes I have, I distinctly remember when you were at my house and you pulled your diaper off and ran around the living room pissing everywhere. And yes, that was a terrible attempt at changing the subject."

Seriously, how could Trunks ever like someone, when he remembers something like _that_? I've just been cock-blocked by my toddler self.

I exhale my breath dramatically and throw my head back to look at the ceiling. "Trunks I'm fine, okay? It's nothing you need to worry about."

"So you admit that there is something wrong," he says as he shifts to lie next to me, his elbows holding his upper body up as he watches me. "And I know that whatever this is has been bothering you for a while, so yes I think I'm allowed to be worried."

Great, now I can't deny it. I'll just have to play it off.

"It's nothing, Trunks, don't worry about it."

"It's _me_ isn't it?"

The sick feeling in my stomach is back again. "What?"

"It's _me_ , that's why you don't want to talk about it. What did I do?"

"You didn't do anything!" I exclaim.

"I must have done _something_."

I do that thing where I exhale dramatically again. "It's not like that..."

"What is it like then?"

My eyes trail over, and I see that he is watching me intently. His skin looks paler, because of the light from the television reflecting off of it. The events of the television show are glowing in the corner of his blue eyes, as his focus is trained on me.

I wonder for a moment, just what he would say if I told him just how badly I want him.

_Easy. He'll think that you are an eternally awkward person, and then he'll decide that he does not want to be associated with an eternally awkward person and slither his way out of your friendship, which will leave you a lonely eternally awkward person, and no one wants to be a lonely eternally awkward person... Didn't we just go through this?_

Yes voice in my head—that sounds suspiciously like my own—we have.

"Come on, Goten," he says. "You can tell me."

I push myself onto my elbows. "I don't think you want to hear it."

"What do you mean?"

I should tell him, shouldn't I? I mean, I have to have _some_ sort of faith in him right? He's my best friend; I know I can trust him.

I roll myself onto my side, and brace myself on one elbow, my face a bit too closely to his. He blinks and backs his head away a bit. He's preserving a safe-distance. He—unlike me—is keeping a perfectly safe-distance, which all best friends are required to follow. Maybe I shouldn't tell him...

' _No dammit, I'm going to tell him. I can't keep lying to him!'_

"I... like someone." It almost hurt to force that out, and my heart is banging in my chest.

"You... like someone?" he says, as an unreadable expression taints his face. Is he stunned that I like someone? That wouldn't make sense, because I always tell him which chicks I'm into, so this shouldn't be something new. Is he confused, like he's trying to figure out why I'm making such a big deal about having a crush on someone? That could be it, because this is quite out of character of me. Or well, it would be, if it was anyone else but him.

Or could it be... that he's _disappointed_?

_No, that's crazy._

But maybe...

_No, Goten, shut up. He's not disappointed because you like someone._

...

...

... But maybe...

I guess there is only one way to find out: ask him.

"Why do you look disappointed?" Yes, I acknowledge that this is rather overly self-confident of me to be saying—especially since his expression could have meant anything—but I know Trunks, and he's very easy to read when one is blunt. Also, confidence is key... I guess...

"Wh-what? I'm not disappointed!" He says. His cheeks go a bit pink, clashing against his illuminated skin.

He's getting defensive. Interesting...

"I think you are. If you're making me tell you why I'm upset, why can't you tell me why you're disappointed?"

"I..." he looks away. "It's nothing."

I've got him now. "It doesn't seem like nothing."

"Aren't we supposed to be talking about you?"

"Who do you think I like?" if he's going to avoid me, then I'll just avoid him.

"What?"

"Who do you think I like?"

"I don't know?! It's probably fucking Andromeda!"

Ah, Andromeda. She is certainly a lovely lady. Sucks that _lovely_ isn't what I'm into right now. Right now, I'm into muscles and flat chests and dicks and... Yeah, you get the picture.

"No, uh..." I gulp as quietly as I can, and dart my eyes down towards the blanket, "It's, uh... not a girl..."

He doesn't say anything for what feels like an eternity, and I prepare myself for the 'our-friendship-is-no-longer-working-out' conversation he is definitely about to start.

"So... when you say it's not a girl, are you saying that you are harboring feelings for an inanimate object, or a boy?"

I want to say something like, 'definitely an inanimate object. I mean, how are you not simply captivated by that sexy potted plant in the corner?' but I don't, because I refuse to joke about this. He has to know that I am serious.

Me... Being serious. Ugh.

"A boy."

"... Oh."

'Oh' doesn't seem like a good response.

I let an awkward silence drag out for a bit, before I say, "does that freak you out?"

"N-no," he says, and he's blushing. "I don't care. I'm just... surprised."

"Yeah well," I mutter, pinching the bed sheet between my fingers. "If that didn't freak you out, then this definitely will."

"What will?"

Take deep even breathes, Lungs. There you go, Lungs, just like that. "The guy I like."

"... Please don't make me play the guessing game."

Now that I'm paying attention, I notice that this bed sheet is actually rather ugly. "I'm pretty sure you know by now."

He's quiet for a second, before he says, "you're not... screwing with me right? If you are, then you're not funny."

"I'm dead serious." I look at him, and he's watching me, reading me again. When he notices that we've been making eye contact for longer than necessary, he looks away, his cheeks burned red.

"You can't... no." He sits up and crosses his legs on the bed and his arms over his chest.

Good gods do I love those biceps...

"No really, I do." I sit up as well and move towards him. I stop though, because he glares, and scoots away from me. I'm starting to feel sick again.

"Trunks, I—,"

"There's a difference between liking someone and wanting to _fuck_ someone, Goten."

Wait... what?

"You think that—,"

"Yes I think that," he cuts me off, his eyes narrowing deeper. "Stop acting like I don't know who you are and what you mean when you say you 'like someone'. Don't sit there and pretend that's not what you want. Well, I'll tell you right now that that's not going to happen, so screw you and your new hobby of playing with people's emotions. Good fucking night." He stands to his feet and takes a step towards his bed.

"Woah!" I reach out and grab his wrist.

" _What_ , dammit?!" he says as his head whips around to face me, and I swear he's got _death_ reflecting in his eyes. Good _fuck_ I've made him mad!

"What the hell? Will you just slow down for half a second and _talk_ to me?"

"I really don't have anything to say to you right now."

"Come on, Trunks! Do you seriously think that's what I meant?"

He looks annoyed. "Did we not just have that conversation?"

"Seriously, Trunks. You have been my best friend for as long as I can remember, why would that be the only thing I want from you?"

"You tell me."

Ouch, that hurt. That also kind of made me a bit angry.

It's the anger that makes me yank roughly on his wrist and force his unprepared body back onto the bed. He cries out—I kind of wish I ripped his shoulder out of it's fucking socket—as I take a hold of both of his wrists, and pin them to the bed. I glance at his shoulder briefly—thank the gods I didn't _really_ pull it out of its socket—before I glare back down at him.

"Trunks," I bring my face close so our noses touch, and I hope he sees a whole _bunch_ of anger in my eyes. "If I just wanted to fuck you—which I _don't_ —you would have known by now. Do you seriously think I would make such a big deal over this if that was all that I wanted? What the hell is wrong with you? Who do you think I am?"

"A boy who is always bragging about all the bitches he's fucked." He says, his body tensing beneath mine.

I don't believe that I referred to the girls I've fucked as ' _bitches'_ , and I swear there weren't as many as he's implying.

"Well, how many of those 'bitches' were my best friend? How many of them are always in my dreams and taking over my thoughts so badly that I can't even so much as eat a basic lunch in their company without staring like a creep? Did it ever occur to you that I might actually like you, and a _lot_ at that? Because that _really_ makes more sense than me just wanting to fuck you."

He sees my point, and doesn't say anything back. His body doesn't seem as tense, but his eyes aren't on me anymore. I can feel my anger diminishing, because really, how can I stay mad at someone as amazing as him for long? Besides, he's just being difficult. He wouldn't be Trunks if he wasn't difficult.

I lean into his ear. "That's not to say that I don't want to fuck you. I can't deny that..."

His body goes tense again, and I nuzzle my nose against his jaw below his ear. "I really want to, actually. And then tomorrow we can wake up early, and go tour the area like you wanted to." I actually think that's going to be pretty boring, but if that's what Trunks wants to do, than I figure I can manage it.

His body loosens again. "So, you want to have sex first, and then go on a date? I'm pretty sure that's not how it's done."

"Yeah well I've never been one to follow the 'book', so..."

Trunks' chest shudders from his silent laughter. I smile, and bring my lips close to Trunks' ear.

"So, do you want to?"

Trunks' body shifts underneath mine. "I... don't know."

"It'll be fun," I sing in his ear, dragging out the final word.

Trunks hums. "It better be."

"I promise it will, babe."

His nose scrunches as he tries to say, "Don't call me-." But I lean down, and cut him off.

He muffs against my lips, his eyes wide. I stare back at him, and I wonder if the amusement I'm experiencing is showing in my eyes. He calms, and I let go of his wrists, which allows him to fist his hands in the part of my shirt that covers my back. His lips move against mine, and I take the moment to process the fact that I'm _kissing_ Trunks! This is seriously happening. I'm really lying on top of Trunks, my legs tangled with his, my weight supported on one hand while my other is threaded through his hair, and his lips moving just as furiously as mine. I suck his bottom lip, before skimming it with my tongue. It's only a half a second of hesitation before Trunks' tongue is also out, poking against mine. Our tongues brush against each other's—slimy, yet satisfying, I'd say—and I think I hear a tiny moan come from him as I suck his tongue into my mouth.

I pull away, my ears filling with our small pants. He's staring up at me, his cheeks flushed. His lips are red, and his minty breath is sweet to my nose. He smells rather good overall; like a coconut, and that makes me kind of hungry... and yes in _that_ way...

...I wonder why people think I'm strange.

I kick the covers that my legs got entwined with, and look at the bed that we are in. As much as I would love to remain in it, I know that that won't be possible.

I kiss his jaw, and roll off of the bed. I hold onto him, and lower us down as gently as gravity will allow.

He's straddling my waist, and his eyebrows are arched in confusion. "Why are we down here?"

I smile, before I tick my head in the direction of the bed. "The headboard."

He's intelligent, so it only takes him a second to understand what I'm implying, before he's blushing bright red. "Oh, alright."

"See? I can be smart if I really wanted to," I say. And yes, this is smart of me, because can you imagine what Vegeta would say if the headboard starting banging against the wall of his room, and then heard Trunks and me—though most likely me—moaning like there was no tomorrow? I can't. It's too scary a thought to even comprehend.

Oh my gods, moment of realization. I'm actually going to have _sex_ with Trunks.

This is going to be so much _fun_.

I push myself off of the ground so I that I am eye level with Trunks. My nose bumps with his as I grab the hem of his—mine—Of Mice & Men t-shirt, and lift it over his torso. His hair flops as the shirt pops off his head, and I smile at the dazed look he's giving me. The smile on my face is starting to hurt as I pull the shirt from his arms, and toss it aside.

He seems a bit hesitant as he says, "this is crazy."

"I know right." My lips are close so my words brush against his lips. His weight is comfortable in my lap, and I'm surprised he's stayed in this position for this long.

He seems to have noticed, because he's pushing himself off of me. I let him, because once he's sitting in front of me, I climb myself into _his_ lap. My lips are on his as I wrap my arm tightly around his shoulder, while my other hand tangles in his hair. His arms wrap around my back to keep our balance, as his mouth is plundered by my tongue. My hips are grinding against his, and I can feel his growing interest pressing against mine.

He can't keep our balance forever, and he falls onto his back. I lift my weight off of him so he won't be uncomfortable, as I trail my hand up the bare skin of his torso.

He wiggles beneath me. "That tickles, Goten!"

"Sorry," I say, and don't bother hiding how amused I am. He glares at me, but I only smile, and pinch my fingers over his nipple. I bring my lips down onto it, and revel in his small intake of breath. I suck on him, as my hands fall down to his pajamas pants. He lifts his hips for me as I pull his trousers off, leaving him in his tight navy briefs. I just barely stopped myself from licking my lips like a weirdo.

I loop my fingers through the elastic of his underwear. "Can I?"

He looks at me for a moment, before nodding. I try not to seem eager as I pull his briefs down. I have seen him naked plenty of times—hell, we used to _bathe_ together—but not any time recently. I also have never seen him... _excited_.

I pull his underwear down to his thighs, and couldn't even attempt to stop myself from licking my lips this time. He's watching me with his brow arched, and I pull my own pants and underwear down as quickly as I can, before I bring myself down to kiss him again. I bring my hand up to stroke his beautiful hardened flesh, and he bites his lip.

"Why would you hide this from me for so long?" I ask against his lips.

He rolls his eyes, but I think I can sense a hidden smile. "Shut up, Goten."

I give a little laugh before rolling off of his body. I crawl away from him, and in the direction of my suitcase.

"Where are you going?" he asks, pushing himself onto his knees.

"Here," I say, pulling the zipper on my suitcase and flipping the top open.

"Why?"

"Because of this." I hold up the bottle of lubricant.

He blinks at me. "... Why do you have that?"

"Because I was hoping to get lucky with some Barcelonan babe," I say honestly. I turn back at him, and his eyes are narrowed at me. I grin. "As it turns out, I've got myself a Western babe. Pretty cool; I heard they were a party."

"Shut up, Goten," he grumbles, but I think I've flattered him. I turn away from him and reach into the suitcase again. I unzip a built-in pouch, and grab the condom I know is left over from the last time I used the suitcase. I flip the suitcase closed, and look at the tiny package. I bring it closer to me as I look at the date.

"Fuck," I say.

"What?"

Instead of answering, I toss the package to him. He lifts it up to his face, and once I'm sure he's read the line that indicates the condom expired almost three weeks ago, I ask, "Do you trust me?"

"Trust you?"

"Yeah, I swear I don't have anything to give you."

He looks at me for a second, before replying, "Okay, I trust you."

There's a swelling in my chest that can't be described as anything else except for intense joy.

"Cool." With the bottle of lube curled in my hand, I crawl back over to him slowly, my lips in what could be classified as a seductive smirk.

"You're so weird," he says, his shoulders shaking, nose flaring, and lips smiling with his silent laughter.

"Weirdness is the key to a basic society." I don't allow him to respond to my strange statement by saying, "Turn over."

His brows narrow in confusion, before they widen in realization. "O-oh."

I seriously don't think I've stopped smiling once since we started this.

I decide to stop concerning myself with it, because Trunks is rolling over, bracing himself onto his forearms and knees, presenting to me his...

"Fuck," I say.

"What?" he says without looking at me. He's probably trying to hide the blush that I know is spread over his face.

I don't answer him. Instead, I reach my hand out, and rub my fingers from his perineum up to his exposed hole.

He yelps and jumps. I laugh.

"Don't laugh at me! I wasn't expecting that!"

"Sorry," I say, but don't stop rubbing my fingers against his warm soft skin. He fidgets uncomfortably underneath my touch, and I can tell he desperately wants to close his thighs together.

"Relax," I say, running my other hand up and down his back. He nods and exhales a deep breath as his body loosens beneath my fingers. It's because of this that he can focus on the pleasure my touch is giving him. I can tell, because when I look over, I see the top of his forehead pressing into the carpet, his closed eyes, drawn eyebrows, red cheeks, and bottom lip clenched between his teeth.

So. _Sexy_.

I remove the hand that was rubbing his back, and grab the container of lube. It's rather challenging to squirt some onto my fingers with one hand, but miraculously I manage. He doesn't notice my ordeal, until I have my slick fingers pressing against his opening.

He jumps again, and tells me that it's cold. I tell him they won't be cold soon. He tells me to shut up. I laugh, and move to push two of my fingers inside of him, when his hand on my wrist stops me.

"Goten, y-you know what you're doing, right?"

I lean over his body, so my voice is right by his ear. "Of course I know what I'm doing. Now relax and shut up."

He nods, and I push my fingers against his opening, until I'm inside of him.

His back is warm against my chest as I slide my fingers as deep as they'll go, before I pull them out, and push them in again. His body is tight and hot around my fingers, and I can't _wait_ to have this tight heat around a more _intimate_ place.

"God's," he says, and I think maybe he can't wait either. I don't want this to hurt for him though, so I remain patient, and keep my steady pace of two fingers. I add a third one when I'm certain he's ready. He rocks slightly against my fingers, as I try to spread them as best I can inside of him.

"Goten, come on," he says, his muscles clenching around me to emphasize his impatience.

I pull my fingers out, and grind my hips against his backside. "Geez, I didn't think you'd be the _needy_ type."

His body rocks as my pelvis rubs against him. "I'm not being needy!"

"So you're not saying you can't wait to have me inside of you?" I reply, spikes of pleasure running down to my loins as my cock slides between Trunks' thighs.

"Don't say it like that. You make me sound like a common whore." He's pushing back against me, and rubs his thighs against my sliding flesh.

I roll my eyes and bite my lip. "Trunks, your major prude-ness prevents you from so much as _pretending_ to be a whore, _even_ if somebody paid you."

"Shut up and come on!"

"Okay, okay. Hold on, beautiful." I say as I grab the tiny container underneath his body and discreetly use both of my hands—so much easier this way—so I can squeeze more lube into the palm of my hand. I've never had sex without a condom, so I'll excited to see how this is going to go.

"Don't call me that!" He cries in aggravation.

I pump my fist to coat the lubricant on myself. "Trunks, I've wanted you for over a fucking year, and have also been calling you a number of pet names in my head since then, and you will certainly hear them. You're my boyfriend, and you're beautiful. So in conclusion, I'm going to call you whatever the fuck I want. Now that that is out of the way, are you ready, babe?"

How much do you want to bet that his eyebrow is twitching in irritation? I'll bet you every last penny I own. Which I can guarantee isn't much...

"Yes, Goten, I'm ready." There is annoyance in his voice, but also a bit of nervousness that I catch easily.

"Just relax," I say in his ear as I grab myself, and line up with the tight heat that I swear I can already _taste_. He's quiet as I push against him, easily sliding in because of the lube. I wrap my arms around him again, and rest my head on his upper back as I pelvis once again connects with his backside.

"You cool?" Whoever created condoms is an asshole. Why would that person make a product that prevents _this_? I don't think I can ever use one again...

He shifts beneath me. "Yeah, you can, um, m-move."

I laugh a little at his awkwardness, as I pull my hips away from him, only to slam them against his backside again. I press my lips to his back to keep myself quiet as I thrust against him over and over. Trunks moans are muffled by the carpet he's got his face pressed into, his forearms barely keeping both of our combined weight up. I don't help him though, because I'm too focused on thrusting into this hot pleasure passage. My speed picks up as my arms trail up his body and he's tight around me and good _gods_ am I loving this!

"Goten," I hear him say as loudly as he'll dare. "More!"

I nod my head against his back, and thrust my hips harder. The loud slapping sound our thighs make due to the lube that's trickled down worries me a bit, but nowhere near enough to make me stop or even slow down this amazing experience. I just hope Vegeta sleeps as deeply as Trunks.

I use my arms to pull him up onto his knees with me. I grip his hip and opposite shoulder as I thrust up harder into him. One of his hands is thrown over his mouth, while the other is fisting the hardened flesh between his thighs. His body shakes as I pound into him, and my face is buried in his shoulder because goddammit if I don't release soon, I seriously might scream!

"Goten," I hear him say. His pants are sexy, and I almost pretend I didn't hear him speak, just so I can listen to him pant.

"Huh?"

"I'm close. _Fuck_." He moans, his pumping hand becoming a blur over his need.

"Me too," I reply, before pressing my lips against his neck, and focusing on the tight heat I've got wrapped around me.

"Goten, I—ah!" He moans as he tightens around me. I grit my teeth as my climax hits me. I ride myself against him until I'm done, before I let go of him, and fall back to sit on my butt. Trunks' hands come out to keep himself upright on his knees. His head is lowered and eyes are closed as his chest rises and falls rapidly due to his breathless state. I look at the ass in front of me, and see my cum dripping from him, which is not only a reminder of what we just did, but also a reminder of the fact that I _put_ Trunks in this state, and can do it _again_ if I wanted.

I crawl until I'm on my hands and knees beside him. I kiss his cheek and say, "hello, boyfriend."

He looks at me, before rolling his eyes. "Hello, boyfriend."

What do you think I did next? Go on, guess. Was it smile? If it was, you're most certainly correct.

"Come on," I say as I get to my feet, pulling him up with me. "Let's go to sleep."

"But shouldn't we-" he looks back at the mess _he_ made on the carpet. The mess _I_ made him make. "Clean up?"

"Tomorrow," I say as I crawl onto the bed. Trunks follows me. "Or we could just leave it for the room service lady. Ew, wouldn't that be a nice surprise for her?"

"You're disgusting," he says, laying his head on my shoulder, and wrapping his arms around my waist. He holds me tightly, and I wonder just how long he's wanted to be able to do this.

I decide that that is a topic that could be thought about tomorrow. Right now, I've got a beautiful best friend-turned-boyfriend snuggled against me who's covered from the waist down with my cum, and I'm tired.

Goodnight.

_The end_

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for the shifting tenses. I only recently realized I was doing it.


End file.
